


To Love Is To Live

by erikaehm



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erikaehm/pseuds/erikaehm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for this meme prompt:</p>
<p>Twist on the 'Bilbo takes in a dwarf' stories.</p>
<p>Bilbo does take in a dwarf … but not Thorin, Fili, Kili, or Ori.</p>
<p>He takes in Bifur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Love Is To Live

**Author's Note:**

> The full prompt:
> 
> Twist on the 'Bilbo takes in a dwarf' stories.
> 
> Bilbo does take in a dwarf … but not Thorin, Fili, Kili, or Ori.
> 
> He takes in Bifur.
> 
> Through circumstances, Bifur is separated from his cousins shortly after his head wound heals, and wanders into the Shire/Hobbiton, where he proceeds to terrify the locals with his strange language and hand gestures and the ax in his head.
> 
> Bilbo decides to take a chance on him when he catches sight of several little hobbitlings braiding flowers into Bifur's hair/beard and the dwarf returning the favor.
> 
> Thus begins the long road of challenges ahead of Bilbo and Bifur.
> 
> Challenge 1: Bifur can't speak anything but Khuzdul and flatly refuses to teach Bilbo.  
> Challenge 2: Bifur doesn't know/remember the Westron alphabet, which makes written communication impossible/VERY difficult.  
> Challenge 3: Dwarf vs. Hobbit customs, as illustrated by two adults living in one house.  
> Challenge 4: Bifur's place in the community, which Bilbo insists on finding. (Also, proving that Bifur is not a 'Dangerous Dwarf')
> 
> And anything else you'd like to add.
> 
> tl;dr: Bilbo takes in Bifur when the Dwarf wanders into Hobbiton. Communication proves to be the most difficult thing to deal with.
> 
> Bonus: Bifur's not stupid nor violent. He's a big teddy bear that only LOOKS crazy, and once the hobbits figure this out, they absolutely adore him.
> 
> ~~
> 
> Nonny who requested this, I hope I did your idea justice :x

To Love Is To Live

 

Their Shire didn’t seem to have all that many predators or Dangerous Things, but if there was _one_ wild creature the Halflings were familiar with, it was the badger. After all, how could one not be, when their housing was so similar? The creatures weren’t very large – similar, of course, to their two legged counterparts – but they were _vicious_ when they needed to be. There were stories of badgers chasing off much larger animals just from the sounds they could make. All in all they were a sometimes-seen creature that most of the Hobbits steered clear of, distinctive with their thick black and white fur.

 

When Bilbo first sees the Dwarf – for that has to be what he is, too short for a man too tall for a hobbit, and he wears _boots_ , of all things – the very first thought to jump into his scattered little head is _badger_.

 

The Dwarf is thickly muscled, with his wild beard and hair streaked thoroughly with the beginnings of grey. His clothes, from what Bilbo can see, are stained ruddy brown in some places which speaks of dried blood. He walks with a limp, favoring his right side, and his head turns from one side to the other as though he’s looking for something.

 

If Bilbo had been just a few years younger or his heart hadn’t been aching quite so, there’s the good chance he’d have rushed right over to the Dwarf, questions dropping quick fire off his tongue. No doubt his lovely mother would be trailing behind; eyes bright with laughter as she’d herded him back towards the merry green door of Bag End.

 

As it is, though, his parents are gone and it’s his first spring alone and he’s _tired_. Too tired and sore to think of adventure or fun, and in the end of it all, a Dwarf wandering through the Shire isn’t unheard of. Nor is it any of his business.

 

Instead of doing any of the number of things expected of the odd Baggins of Bag End, Bilbo settles further into the spot on his bench that once belonged to his father and takes a puff off an old pipe. No, it’s most definitely not his business, and ignoring it is a very good way indeed to prove to the other Hobbits – Lobelia, mostly – that he is in fact a _respectable_ Baggins of Bag End.

 

The Dwarf passes, still looking lost, and Bilbo retreats behind his door to sit again with his books and plates and sensible, Hobbit-y things, firmly planning on ignoring the guilt that steadily build in his gut.

 

OoOoO

 

Bilbo manages to push the Dwarf from his mind with thoughts of his own misery. For a while it is only him, his Hobbit hole, and the stilted conversations with the gardener where only the basics of polite formalities are shared. However all good things must come to an end, and the pantry is getting low. He doesn’t want to but he _has_ to, so he pulls the walking stick out from the closet and sets to the streets to go to the market. He now, for the first time, understands why his mother used to – laughingly – bemoan how much he eats for such a tiny, tiny Hobbit.

 

It’s somewhere around the halfway point that soft laughter tickles at his pointed ears, drawing his attention. Even now in the darkness of his own mind, the one thing that can always bring a smile to his face, without effort, is the sound of happy children. He pauses on his small hill and looks down to see what exactly has caught so many shireling’s attention.

 

There’s a group of them; seven in total and it surprises him that it’s so easy to count the little curly heads, as children seem to be an endless stream of energy. They’re all little girls, of course, and a shrieking peel of laughter draws his attention to the centre of the group.

 

The badger-Dwarf is sitting in the grass, legs crossed and head bowed. From here, Bilbo can see something – a piece of metal, an ax perhaps, or something of wood? He can’t be sure; it’s too far – sticking from the fellow’s forehead. There’s no blood, so it must be an old wound, and he remembers that Dwarrows are prone to battle, and war. Surely something such as a battle scar is not so odd for a Dwarf.

 

What is odd, he would think, is for a Dwarf to patiently sit as petite fauntlings bounce around him, baskets and skirts full of bright wild flowers. They all have tiny handfuls of greying hair. It looks as though they’re trying to braid the thick strands, although it’s easy to see more knots than actual braids are being made. Their flowers are lost to the cause of making the Dwarf pretty, but Bilbo can admit to himself that strewn with pink and purple flowers; the old badger-Dwarf isn’t half as terrifying.

 

The man smiles and his fingers brush over a small head with much more care than Bilbo would have thought possible. The fingers are thick, much like the rest of him, but they are agile – braiding yellow into vibrant honey-gold curls.

 

The sight and sound is warming, the image burning into his brain and settling sweetly in Bilbo’s chest. He allows himself another moment to watch and when he walks away, no worries in his heart for the young one’s safety, the smile that has fixed itself to his face is foreign feeling, yet welcome.

 

OoOoO

 

The frantic shouting is what alerts him to the fact that there is, indeed, a problem. He’s only left his little Hobbit hole for a quick walk in the woods to stretch his legs but it appears that this day – like many others before it – luck is not on his side. He pauses behind a tree, as silent and unseen as any Hobbit could ever hope to be, to listen.

 

He can’t understand half of what’s being said but the female who is shouting is familiar – a Cotton, although he can’t recall her first name – and he resigns himself to becoming known as he steps around the trunk.

 

The Dwarf. Of course.

 

There’s a little Cotton lass behind her mother’s skirt, face pinched with tears, and the elder woman has begun screaming in _earnest._ The Dwarf is gesturing wildly and shouting in a guttural language that brings the image of boulders and cool mountain mines to mind. Bilbo clears his throat to get both their attention and when they turn to him, he realizes it’s the first time he’s seen the Dwarf up close.

 

Standing only a handful of feet away, he’s even more terrifying. His eyes, bright as they are, seem old beyond reason and so out of place on such a wild face. The hair, the beard, they both work to make him look mad – crazier still, the ax blade sticking from his forehead. But the eyes are soft and intelligent, a little bit frustrated, and they are _begging_. Whether for forgiveness or for the ability to communicate, to be _heard_ by these strange little people, Bilbo does not know.

 

He would like to, though, so he gently soothes the Cotton woman with soft words, hand hovering at her lower back. It doesn’t take long. She explains to him that she’s been looking for her young one for hours, only to find her here in the woods with the Dwarf, so far away from town.

 

Bilbo doesn’t tell her that it’s hardly far at all. Instead he ushers the fauntling out and plucks at the snapdragons in her braided hair, voice crooning as he explains they’d probably come looking for more flowers, and really ma’am, it’s just as simple and innocent as that.

 

The entire thing ends quicker than he’d imagined. The mother casts the Dwarf a final untrusting look, and then slips back towards the path, scolding her daughter all the while.

 

He straightens, weight leaning into his walking stick, and glances back at the Dwarf with what he hopes is a soothing smile. “I’m sorry about all that.” He says slowly, wondering if he can even be understood. “Mother’s you know.” He shrugs. “They worry. Ah, forgive me. Bilbo Baggins.” He holds out a hand, fighting back a squeak as it’s engulfed by a much larger palm.

 

More boulder-rumble from the Dwarf, the only word he manages to catch being “Bifur.”

 

He repeats it curiously as it’s the only thing he can pronounce. The Dwarf taps himself on the chest with a nod and it dawns on Bilbo. “Your name is Bifur?” Another nod. “Bifur, then. Might I inquire as to where you’re staying?”

 

There is a snort, and a gesture that encompasses all the forest.

 

The guilt he’d done so well to stamp down rises inside of him so fast he fears he’ll fall into a faint. “I – I see.” He manages to stutter, swallowing twice before he continues.

 

It takes a great deal of patience, something he’s never had much of, and by the end of it he finds himself bustling a rain-soaked Dwarf with muddy boots through his door, cursing his own adventure addled brain.

 

OoOoO

 

Bifur rises with the sun and goes down with it, like clockwork. He’s a quiet fellow in general and incredibly domestic. The first evening he’d been in Bag End he’d set to washing up after dinner a though he’d been living there for years. Bilbo wonders at where this Dwarf has come from. Some travel for trade, he knows, but he can’t remember any particular clan that wanders. He reminds himself to look for some more books when it becomes clear that this _is_ a traveling Dwarf.

 

The entirety of his belongings is carried in a single, small pack that he checks twice a day. Once when he wakes, then again when he sleeps. Bilbo knows too that there is a vast array of weapons that Bifur carries with him, his boar spear being the one he seems to favor. He also always has a small first aid pack and sewing kit on his person, tucked neatly beside a carving knife.

 

“This would be easier if I could understand you. It’s clear that you understand me.” Bilbo muses out loud, watching his strange new companion. They’re in his small sitting room, Bilbo in his father’s chair and Bifur taking up the couch. The Dwarf nods gravely, expression serious as his fingers pluck gestures into the air, meaningless to all but him. “What happened to – I mean it’s entirely inappropriate to ask, but?” Bilbo taps his forehead, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

 

Bifur smacks a fist into his palm as his throat makes a guttural noise.

 

“A fight?” A nod, then a head shake for no. Palms together then stretching out further. “Bigger than a fight. Battle.” A repeat, and Bilbo breathes out, “War?”

 

A final nod and then calloused hands drop palms down onto heavily muscled thighs. They sit in silence as Bilbo tries to think of how to ask more questions without being overly rude, and in a way that is sure to get him answers he’ll be able to decipher.

 

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by one of those hands brushing feather-light over the back of his. He drags his eyes away from the fire and towards Bifur, words dying on his lips when he sees what the Dwarf is holding.

 

It’s the small portrait of his parents on their wedding day, paper browned in its small, cracked frame. He reaches out numbly to brush his own fingers across the worn wood. He looks up, finally, and the words still won’t come. He can see in Bifur’s eyes though, that nothing needs to be said – his pain is written across his face, in his eyes that glass over because that wound is still new to him, still open and close. His throat clicks audibly as he swallows.

 

His expression is echoed in the scarred face before his. The Dwarf reaches into his shirt and Bilbo is presented with a different piece of worn, ragged paper. It’s browning too, and he’s aware that the stain in the upper right is blood. He takes great care in laying it across his lap and his eyes eagerly drink in the one thing that, to some, would seem like nothing. To Bifur, this little picture is a treasure.

 

There are three boys in it; the eldest has a familiar bushy beard and hair. What seems to be the middle child is sporting adorably sweet braids on either side of his head, similar to the pigtails the Hobbit girls wear. The youngest is painted with the baby-fat of all children clinging to his cheeks and pudgy little fingers, one hand curved into Bifur’s beard.

 

It’s not quite a portrait, more a quick sketch done in swift black strokes of ink. He drags the tip of his finger across weathered faces, heart hammering furiously in his chest.

 

This is something they will both understand until they die; the love and loss of family. Bilbo isn’t ashamed of the tears of his eyes as he reads the Dwarvish runes scrawled onto the bottom of the page, wondering at their meaning before handing the yet again folded paper back to the Dwarf.

 

He knows now what Bifur seeks without a word having been said. He just doesn’t know how to help.

 

He notices, three days later, the new frame surrounding his parents’ portrait. It is made of a rich, dark wood, lovingly carved. There are swirls that remind him of the markings on the door of Bag End. The entire piece is brilliantly done and he murmurs his thanks over a late supper.

 

His thanks are met with a gesture that he will one day come to learn means family, but which he mistakes for you’re welcome.

 

OoOoO

 

Before this moment, almost an entire month into their living together, Bilbo has never seen Bifur get angry. Not at the children that pull too hard at his hair, or the old slinky Tom cat that shredded his hand, or the loud-mouthed gossip Hobbits that hover at the gates of Bag End. Which is why, Bilbo supposes, seeing Bifur lose his temper is so utterly _terrifying_. He’s assumed that the Dwarf didn’t _have_ a temper what with his seemingly endless pool of patience.

 

Apparently, asking Bifur if he can teach you Khuzdul – asking is a light term, he knows, but Bilbo is loathe to admit he was _pestering_ – is on a very short, yet serious, list of no-no’s. Not that anyone had told him. Which was of course because _no one could_ which wouldn’t be a problem if Bifur just _taught him_.

 

He’s half expecting to get a crack upside the head when his own voice joins in Bifur’s shouting, but the Dwarf simply snarls and takes off out the door. It leaves Bilbo standing in the foyer, mouth gaping, as Bifur quickly disappears into the distance.

 

He curses his curious mind – and his mother, who encouraged it – as he sets about making lunch, unsure if he’ll even have a second to join him today. The thought makes his stomach crawl uncomfortably. He’s gotten too used to living with another person, after being alone for a time.

 

The air in the house feels stale and heavy as he paces, cleaning and occasionally picking at random bits of food despite having no appetite.

 

Yet Bifur – quiet, reliable Bifur – is back ten minutes before their usual lunch time, carrying with him two apples he’s obviously picked from the forest. He offers one of them, the other having a huge bite taken out of it, and Bilbo laughs wetly. “I’m the one who should be making amends. It was wrong of me to pry. My apologies, Bifur, and my thanks.” He takes the apple regardless, making a show of having a bite. It’s perfectly ripe.

 

Bifur purses his lips as he chews and they stand like that in the foyer, regarding each other over bites of apple. Eventually, core cupped in one palm, Bifur mimics a gesture Hobbit ladies tend to use. It’s a simple one for it stands for a simple prayer. Bilbo furrows his brow as he thinks.

 

Bifur rumbles at him in Khuzdul – Bilbo only knows what the language is called because he’s gotten his hands on as many books about Dwarrow he can possibly find – and does the gesture again. It dawns on Bilbo. “Sacred?” He asks, waiting for a yes or no. He receives the former. “Your language, this Khuzdul, is sacred?” Another nod.

 

Now he doesn’t only curse his own curiosity but the lack of forethought the authors have put into their writings. Sacred language should stay sacred, and a disclaimer should come along with its name surely. “I deeply apologize, Bifur.” He says once more, bowing his head to further show his sorrow. “I’d not known. If I had, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it. But that’s behind us, now!” He adds hastily, nudging the larger figure towards the table. “Lunch is set out, yes, yes, there is a salad. I’ll be in with you in just a minute, now, but feel free to get started!”

 

He disappears into his study; searching through his desk until he comes up with fresh paper and a second quill, jar of ink tucked adoringly into his pocket.

 

He eats before he makes his offer. “I know you can understand Westron just as I know you can’t read it. Since I can’t learn your language, how about I try to teach you mine?” He lays his findings out across a freshly cleaned table, expression serious. “After all, it’s the least I could do and it might make things easier for the both of us. Could you ever write or read Westron?” A nod in the negative and he hums.” It might take more work, then, yes? That’s all fine and well.” He lays a hand on Bifur’s forearm, a touch that’s shared by Dwarrow and Hobbits alike as a sign of reassurance. “We have all the time in the world.”

 

If he’d been looking closer, he’d have caught the look of longing in Bifur’s eyes.

 

Bifur has time, yes, because he has no idea where he’s supposed to be. He wishes every day when he rises with the sun, that he will wake up knowing. When he settles with it at night he prays.

 

OoOoO

 

Children become a common sight in the yards of Bag End, often seen sitting on the fences or atop broad Dwarven shoulders. Bifur carries the fauntlings with the ease of practice and the gentleness of someone who holds the most valuable treasure of all – life, full of innocence and burning bright. The parents had feared him early on, but as often as the children can be found, their mothers aren’t far behind with words of thanks and sweet, nervous smiles.

 

The young ones learn early on not to touch Bifur’s forehead as it does cause him pain. One little faunt goes so far as to press a kiss beside the ax, unafraid and adoringly. Bilbo thinks it’s probably the cutest thing he’s ever seen and hides his smile behind his pipe.

 

He likes watching Bifur with the children, as its one of the best learning experiences. Children, he realizes, are the gateway to all things good. They seem to understand the Dwarf more than anyone else and their young, fresh minds pick up easily on his sign language as they are willing to learn. It’s not perfect, he knows. They can only learn so much when he can only teach with things he _sees_ , yet Bilbo now has a small arsenal of signs for them to communicate with. Which is all thanks to the youngest child of them all sitting at his side, listening to his stories and teaching him between peels of shrieking laughter.

 

“You’re very good with them.” He says one day when the last one is gone, waving goodbye as the mother corrals him down the street. “You seem to have a lot of experience with children. Did you work with them at all?” He asks, trying desperately to learn.

 

Bifur shakes his head. It’s a slow process as they sit together with broken bits of sign language and rough Westron scrawled almost illegibly in a notebook, but they manage to solve the puzzle.

 

Bifur tells him that he was a miner first, a warrior second, and a care taker above all. He has no siblings only his mothers sister-sons and Dwarf children are rare – rare like the many leaved clovers the shireling children covet. He shows this to Bilbo through his own clover, pressed flat in a book about precious gems that Bilbo had picked up from the market.

 

Bilbo absorbs the information eagerly. “What else?” He asks. “What else can you _show_ me?”

 

Bifur ponders it and within minutes Bilbo finds himself pressed onto the ground before the Dwarf. He’s tucked neatly between strong legs, back to Bifur’s front, his head only coming up to the other mans knees. He grunts. “I’m not a child, Bifur, what on Earth are you –“

 

He gets a tap, playful and friendly on the top of his head and instantly he falls silent. It’s the symbol they’ve made for _shush_ , one they use on the children. A quick, soft tap to the head barely hard enough to be felt let alone hard enough to hurt. Fingers card through his shaggy hair – he’s been meaning to get it cut – and he finds his curls being tugged at gently.

 

The feel of hands on his scalp, the meticulous movement of them, is soothing in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a child, laid up sick in bed with his mother petting his head. He lets himself fall still as Bifur works and when all is said and done, he reaches a finger up to finger at one of the tight braids. They are short, yes, and he feels ridiculous, but he knows too that this is somehow monumental. For Bifur is forever fixing the little ones hair, he has never once offered to do Bilbo’s, or ask for help with his own beard braids.

 

The hand presses lightly on the nape of his neck, a sign that he can move now. “Braids?” Bifur says something in Khuzdul, accompanied by quick gestures at Bilbo’s feet.

 

They work it out that braids are a custom. Bifur cradles his hands near his heart. It’s a precious custom and there – the symbol for family.

 

Bilbo’s heart tightens painfully as his breath leaves him in a mighty huff. A custom shared amongst family, and he’s...

 

He doesn’t – won’t, can’t – dwell on it.

 

“Come on then. I’ll show you one of mine.” He says instead, knocking his toes lightly on Bifur’s boots. “Off with those, now, come along.”

 

They spend the rest of the day barefoot in the woods. He stays to the softer parts of long dew-wet grass, knowing Bifur’s feet aren’t as strong or callous as his own. The Dwarf does a good job of keeping up with the quick Hobbit’s steps, no doubt from corralling children for so many months.

 

It has been five that he’s been in Bag End, longer still since he’s been in the Shire.

 

They climb over rolling hills hidden beneath old trees, and Bilbo sings quiet Age old songs as he dances barefoot in the underbrush, aware of the dark eyes that track him. Sometimes Bifur joins him in song, the boulder-rumble that no one but he understands a steady drumming beat under Bilbo’s light hearted songs. It makes him think of great towering mountains, of kings and stones and the pounding of pick axes deep in the mines.

 

As the sun sets they find themselves in a field where Bilbo had searched for Elves as a child. There are berries growing wild and ripe in the shrubs, which they pick and eat for dinner. Their fingers are stained hopelessly red and the mood seems so fragile that he keeps the conversation on simple things. He tells stories of himself as a faunt, of the things that he would do, and he teaches Bifur all the plants. He tells him what they mean to Hobbits and presses a yellow flower into the larger mans chest, bright yellow. “For friendship and loyalty.” He explains on their slow walk back to Bag End.

 

It ends up pressed in the page behind his clover, and the next morning Bilbo gets a lesson on limestone that somehow manages to be more informative than any book.

 

OoOoO

 

Dwarrows, he learns, enjoy squared shapes. The boxy look to their weapons is a tribute to the stone their ore is harvested from. Hobbits, he teaches, enjoy round shapes. The bubbly look to their homes is a tribute to the Earth that provides so much.

 

They learn through two easy months that their people appreciate different things but in the end, it’s all really the same isn’t it? They love that which grants them life. They are both Harvesters of the Earth, albeit they go about it in different ways.

 

The Westron alphabet doesn’t stick for long; much more difficult to Bifur than the runes he can be found carving into the things he makes. He has a few simple words he can write easily, and it’s not due to ignorance that he can’t learn any further. The ax in his head coupled with his age make learning something from the ground up like that tiring and difficult. When it becomes apparent that it’s stressing Bifur a bit, they stick to what he’s been taught and don’t bother learning anymore.

 

Yet Bilbo can’t help but feel pride on the days where the other Shirelings knock on his door, humble requests for commissions on their tongues. He smokes and writes beside Bifur for long hours outside as the other one whittles away. He watches bowls and toys and wooden beads come to life – can imagine the roar a wooden bear will give, or the click clack of magnificent unicorn horns. He knows the table ware will last longer than the Hobbits who pay for it, just as he knows that one day, his stories will be passed onto generations much younger than he.

They work side by side, day in and day out, and their life is bright with the laughter of children, the songs they sing before the warmth of their hearth as a stew cooks away. Bilbo knows that what he feels now is love in its simplest form – the love of companionship, of another being.

 

What feels like an Age ago – and was in reality, hardly a year – he hadn’t thought he’d ever smile again.

 

They are a mirror of each other, equal parts longing and happy.

 

OoOoO

 

He finds the name in a book, of course. He drags the dusty old tome out to the yard where Bifur is smoking and asks him quietly, “Erebor?”

 

There is stark pain painted across his face and Bilbo knows then. This is an exiled Dwarf of a Kingdom that no longer has a King. He thinks of boulder-rumble songs and his insides tremble with the power of words he no longer needs to translate to understand.

 

He fingers his braids, toying with the wooden beads keeping them in place.

 

“You don’t remember where they are.” He says, and he nods at the ax chunk. “You don’t remember where you came from, after Erebor.”

 

There is a head shake indicating no and for a long time they don’t talk about it.

 

But Bilbo doesn’t forget, and he doesn’t stop thinking, and it takes him three whole weeks before he is prepared. He waits for a sunny day with a quiet breeze, the murmur of children fading with the wind that rides on the setting sun before he says a thing.

 

Bifur is sitting in the final glow of the day, skin bronzed from it as he works at the pipe he’s been carving for days. He hums under his breath as his steady hands move, only looking up from his work when a Hobbit sized shadow falls across him.

 

Bilbo’s face is the most grave it’s been since he laid his late mother to rest. He waits for Bifur to set his tools aside, and then gives the Dwarf his back as he settles between his legs. The braiding has become an act that calms them both, one they try to do every few days. He manages to stay silent still until the old braids are undone and the very first is just beginning again. “I read a lot, but I don’t know much. I like to think that I do but we both know I don’t. I’ve never left the Shire, or gone on any real grand adventure. I thought my walks in the woods as a child were grand and I guess then, to someone so small, they were. Yet now I’m not a child and I’m trying to learn, Bifur. I’ve been looking into it, since you...since I read about Erebor. Since then.” Here he pauses to take a breath. “You were covered in blood and you wore traveller’s clothes. I didn’t know if there were any Dwarrow who spent their entire lives on the road, but you didn’t look at all like the sort to come from...from a home. And now I know that you do not. But you might have been the sort who was not coming from a home, yet looking for one. I didn’t think of it any sooner because you were headed in the opposite direction. Yet, there is a place far to the North-West of here known as Erid Luin, or the Blue Mountains.”

 

Bifur’s hands fall still, heavy where they sit on his head.

 

“There are Dwarrow there. There...I can’t say for sure. But it’s worth a shot.” He knows he doesn’t need to elaborate any further.

 

He’d honestly thought the Dwarf had been heading for Bree. Yet he’d stayed and as much as they spoke, or communicated, he remembered so much that Bilbo had thought his family truly lost.

 

“It might be as simple as a trip across the land.” He says, stunned, and then he says nothing at all as a bearded face presses into his half braided hair and begins to weep.

 

OoOoO

 

It takes them what feels like forever. He can’t help but miss his cosy Hobbit hole in Bag End, but knows that he’s left it in safe hands. He knows too that he is in safe hands – especially after a fight just a few days prior ended with Bifur’s spear in someone’s throat. He has mostly lost track of time, one day melding into the next, but he doesn’t regret coming along.

 

They still sing, and he’s managed to get Bifur out of his shoes and exploring twice so far on their journey.

 

His hair is braided and he comforts himself with warming the wooden beads between his fingers, until they feel nice resting against his bare skin. They take turns sleeping and telling each other stories in the firelight.

 

Their land is uneven and precarious, and when they are finally – blessedly – standing at the base of the mountains Bilbo feels he may cry in relief.

 

Somehow he manages to keep his tears to himself. At least until he finds himself crushed between Bofur and Bombur. The former has kept his pigtails of a childhood long gone, and now sports a ridiculous hat that looks like it will take flight at any moment. The latter who has gained a deal of weight, grown from his pudgy baby figure to a massive man missing a deal of hair on his scalp.

 

He’s thanked in Westron and Khuzdul, and someone’s fingers toy with his braids while an accented voice murmurs _family_ into his ear.

 

Bilbo Baggins, an oddly respectable Baggins of Bag End has learned many things in this last year. He has learned that in order to understand someone you don’t need to hear their words, but their heart instead. He has learned that fear is bred from ignorance and that ignorance is not bliss. He has learned that the barriers of race and language are meaningless in light of a smile or a shared laugh.

 

But if you were to ask him what the most important thing he’d learned this year has been he would tell you, quite honestly,

 

“The most important thing I’ve learned this year is how to love again.”

 

And somewhere far away there is a Hobbit man and woman who can rest easy knowing their son has found his way. There are hills, fields and woods that bustle with life and there is stone that sings with happiness. For the first time, in a long time – even in the face of so much danger to come – everything is perfectly, beautifully, okay.

 

Because to love is to live.


End file.
